


A Cold Wind

by Icovellavna



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work, World of Warcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icovellavna/pseuds/Icovellavna
Summary: The wind can be dangerous. Fast, cold, sharp. Biting against your skin, much like the chains that bind some.The wind can also be gentle. Warm, easy, slow. Ruffling your hair as it dances around you, much like the inviting laugh of a friend.
Kudos: 2





	A Cold Wind

**Author's Note:**

> The location of this story is a bit ambiguous. It was just a sorta trial to practice writing scenes and descriptions.

A cold wind shoots through the air, the leaves on trees swaying dangerously as the wind threatens to rip them off their branches. A howl from the wind, as if it is crying out for someone, for something. It is not quite dangerous, not yet at least. But any moment could be the moment where the brisk air turns sharper. Where every brush against it feels like a dagger slicing your skin.

Upon a swaying tree lays an elf, not at all bothered by the cold nor the dangerous undertones that cause the trees to shake and shudder. They listen to the lonely howls of the wind as it cries out, the only response being the shaking of leaves as they fly off the tree the elf lays in and swirls around the air, crashing and crumbling as the wind rips them apart with its vicious touch. A cruel dance, one the leaves were never meant to win.

The elf watches, as people and animals alike find shelter against this invisible threat. They are the lucky ones, the ones who aren't trapped in unsympathetic embrace.

Perhaps, it is unfair to compare a leaf to a living being, the wind to a cruel mistress of fate. But is this not what that is? The wind may not choose to kill you, but that makes it worse does it not? To know that once you are in its unrelenting clutches, you cannot escape. For there is no enemy to fight, no chains to break and no locks to pick. The wind does not choose to kill you, for it cannot. Just as the leaves cannot choose to be forced from where they once stood. They have no protection from one as cruel as the wind. Their home is amongst the trees, amongst other leaves, where they grow strong, yet no protection is offered. They are defenseless as they are forced into this dance the wind had started, that the wind will finish.

The elf watches from their perch as two half-elves, twin brother and sister, walk amongst their friends. The wind cuts around them all, yet when one stumbles, another catches them. They twirl around each other, laughing, carefree. Never wavering even as the wind sings it's sorrowful song. No response answers the wind, but the half-elves and their friends change their twirls. They no longer dance against the wind, but rather with it. The rogue twirls a dagger, a grin in place as he purposely stumbles into the warrior. The warrior, strong and unmoving against the wind, moves with the rogue. Stumbling with him as they crash to the ground in a ball of laughter and joy, wind whipping around them as if wanting to play too. The priest, with a sigh and a cry, is pulled into the pile, his voice mixing in with the joyful songs from the rogue and warrior, and the melancholy song of the wind. The sister, a sharp grin in place, but not dangerous. Never dangerous on her, dives into the pile, expecting to be caught in a welcoming hold. 

A loud laugh from the brother, cutting above the songs the group sing, above even the wind herself. Head falling back as he turns, leaving himself vulnerable to the group. Trusting them to have his back should he so much as tremble.

A moment of eye contact, a quizzical raise of a brow. A smile and a wave. Inviting. Hopeful.

The elf jumps from their branch, stumbling against the wind much like the leaves ripped from their trees and forced to dance. The elf takes a moment before stepping forward. The brother, laughing again as the elf stumbles, before he too comes forward, grabbing the elf and dragging them to the group. His hold firm, tight, but not forceful.

Not like the wind.

Never like the wind.

He holds the elf tight enough that they won't stumble against the wind and be forced into a deadly duel, but loose enough that the elf can slip away, should they want to.

They don't.

The elf and the brother joins the group, the elf pulled into the pile on the ground. Mud and dirt staining their clothes. Yet for once, they laugh, uncaring of the cleaning it will require after. Together the group tumbles and dances and sways. Not against the wind, but with it, the wind ruffling their hair softly.

Slowly the sorrow filled and lonely cries die out. The cries become joyful. No longer does the wind force leaves off its branches to dance with it, rather she only takes those who are willing. A gentle embrace, as the leaves and the wind swirls and twirls. Not against each other, but together.


End file.
